


Bite Down, It's Bitter

by mintl34f



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rewind Time Powers, Angst, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Development, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Life Is Strange, Issac Morgan (mentioned) - Freeform, Jealousy, Low Honor to High Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, POV Third Person, Past Charles Smith/Arthur Morgan, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Trauma, Younger Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29752893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintl34f/pseuds/mintl34f
Summary: Since riding down from Colter, Arthur has felt off, tense. He can't help but feel a deep-seated rage that burns towards John Marston, anger at the fact that he'd returned. That John had left them, that he left Arthur. But emotions become more turbulent and complicated as the two are sent out on a simple job. Of course, things are never that simple for Arthur, and in the aftermath of it all, he discovers something different. Another chance.---"He couldn’t help that his hands tensed as he remembered the last time he’d hunted, with a bow at least, and he thought of John, his face split open and bloodied. A scowl breached Arthur’s typically gruff and expressionless face, teeth grinding at the thought of that bastard. Anger, raw and unfocused as it ran through his blood, pounding in time with his heart, faster with the added rush of adrenaline. Tension at the prospect of a hunt. For John to abandon his own family? That was something Arthur could never forgive. "
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Kudos: 11





	Bite Down, It's Bitter

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy! This is my first time writing a fic, and this particular chapter has taken me a long while to complete. I've edited and revised it over and over and over, but there still might be some issues while reading! Let me know any feedback or anything you like down below. I'll try to get the second chapter out in a timely fashion, but that honestly depends on if anyone sees this haha 
> 
> Let me know if there are any specific triggers that I've forgotten to tag and I'll add them!

Yarrow (herb): 

Tall with flat topped clusters of small white (or red or yellow) flowers. Green stem and leaves give it a soft look. Smells heavily of licorice candy, tastes sweet and bitter. Medicinal (fever, cold, toothache, etc.)

…

Horseshoe Overlook— a clifftop that rose high above the trees, rock a marbling of soft golds and harsh blacks. Its curved form gives it a signature name, with its own smaller patch of forest mirroring the one below, stretching to meet the road. Across dirt pathways that marr its deeper woodland, deer and boar roam, their hoofprints forever imprinting into the soft earth. 

Rays of sun shone through the heavily wooded forest, sending warmth and dappled shadows splashing overtop tents, their fabrics pulled taut; they were flimsy things, wide open to the air with only tarp overlaying beds, unable to trap much heat at all. Luckily for the Van Der Linde gang, the bitter, biting colds of winter had all but left, and with the melting of the snows of Colter, Arthur Morgan shed his winter coat. Spring had finally arrived, filling fields with now brightly blooming flowers and plentiful fragrant herbs stuffed full into his worn leather satchel, and a soft warmth that buzzed with the air. 

Arthur lay beneath thin blankets, balling them up tightly in his scarred hands as he slept; the slow rising and falling of the gentle dreamer’s chest barely perceptible. Dawn had barely broken, and most of the camp was still lethargic and heavy with sleep, curled up in their own tents and oblivious to the goings of the world. Soon enough, however, one would leave their ranks as the sun’s golden rays pushed their way onto Arthur Morgan’s face, forcing his pale green eyes open. He blinked a couple times, slowly startling into awareness. In one smooth action, he pushed himself up to a seated position and tousled his dirty blonde hair, pushing it back only to have it fall once more over his face with a soft groan, as his hand quickly moved to shield his eyes. His other would move in time, drifting to scratch at his scruffy beard as he yawned to reveal coffee-stained teeth. Humming softly, he’d begin to scan over the various makeshift tents, tracking, and making sure those... less desirable characters weren’t up yet. A brief quirk of a smile would touch at his face as he noticed Micah Bell was asleep —that snake of a man curled up— and Arthur already felt like this day might be better than expected. He could see the greasy haired man’s arms slowly twitch, back muscles tensing from some nightmarish dream that Arthur thought only served him right. He saw Micah as a threat, someone to avoid, someone just as cutthroat as himself, who might win Dutch’s favor away. He swore he’d die before he saw that day come to pass. 

Pale green eyes drifting from the man, he’d practically thank the gods as he noticed John Marston heavily trapped by his own similar slumber. Now that was another issue entirely. Arthur didn’t see John as anything close to a threat, he was much more like… a small mouse of sorts. Weak. Simple. But definitely annoying. With a scratch at his neck, Arthur thought maybe a _fly_ was more fitting, one that was rather hard to swat away. 

Standing and stretching like a cat, he decided he’d much rather take advantage of this untouched time than spend it musing about all the reasons he hated John. Just seeing the signature shoulder-length hair the other wore was enough to sour his mood. Sadly, he didn’t have any ideas for the day yet, mind still too hazy to start up. He did, however, decide that the first step would be to get dressed, already unbuttoning at his navy union suit, revealing an abundance of untamed chest hair. Pulling on a bandolier of bullets(for easy access later), and quickly shimmying in a dark long sleeve accented by bone-white buttons, and equally dark black pants, he pulled on a glossy belt to hold his revolver on. Then, Arthur’s rather broad hand would reach for one of his hats, and as a finishing touch, he tucked a couple iridescent raven feathers into the side. Taking a passing glance into his mirror, he gave a rather comical, wolfish grin, before rubbing at the blurred metal once to clean it and setting it down. Spending a little more time on his bed, Arthur realized he was feeling dull, no one emotion strongly pushing through his mind. He was still heavily weighed down by sleep, as if chains had been tied around his limbs. Blank, dreamy, and thoughtless as another yawn left his jaws, stretched like a panther. Thankfully, Arthur wasn’t so foolish as to lie in his bed all day, the world moved on without a second thought, and, he assumed, so should he. 

The tall man was quick to spot Charles Smith sitting off on a stump, nimble hands working something over a fire, he felt an almost… magnetic pull to the other. With much regret, he couldn’t help but notice how softly the sun seemed to glance off Charles’ reddish-brown skin, a slight flush spreading to his face and neck as he began to burn up. 

Glowing. The hunter looked practically ethereal in his white spotted blue shirt, and despite how simple his outfit, he still radiated _power_. Not one born from wealth nor ego, but instead, a certain sort of strength filled him. Staring at Charles, Arthur’s eyes lingered longer than they needed to as he welled up with... guilt, an odd emotion on the blonde. And he was unable to help but think,

Was it worth it to be alone?

Damn. He felt hollow, remembering those words he’d said, and... despite it all, begging to take them back. As tough and hardened as he was, Arthur thought, he _hoped_ , maybe Charles would take him into his arms again, even just as friends…

Was that selfish?

Maybe. 

But the word alone still brought him longing, 

Friends.

It filled his mouth with a bitter taste as he quickly looked away, eyes searching the ground for something interesting before fixing their way onto a broken stick. Yup. Look at that. Suuuper interesting. Mhm. Those grooves were very nice and the way that branch bent and curved was… 

This was stupid.

He groaned, one paw-like hand swiping at his face as he burnt up with embarrassment. He was acting like some schoolyard boy! Arthur thought... Well, he assumed, maybe this avoidant dance Charles and him were playing at wasn’t the best choice. So... one ought to grab the bull by the horns! Right? Just get it over with, force things back to normal! And it would be good that the camp didn’t find out about their... Well, whatever that had been, brief as it was. Soft. But... he knew it wouldn’t last. That’s why he’d broken it off, after all. So, why did it feel so... Empty. Why did he feel such a strong pull of longing, even now?

But he did Charles a favor. 

That’s what Arthur would reassure himself with, that thought, that he’d only hastened the inevitable. One look at what happened between Mary Gillis and him would prove that this would only be a pattern. He had saved Charles from inevitable pain, so there was no reason to be withdrawn and timid. A simple conversation and then they’d be back on track. 

  
Hesitantly making his way over, Arthur would pass by Pearson— knife in hand as he chopped through tough sinew and bone— preparing a stew. With a tip of the hat, Arthur spoke, voice raspy and laden with lethargy,   
“Pearson.”   
A simple passing greeting, just out of politeness more than anything else. However, the portly dark haired man would give him a grin,   
“Arthur!”   
And, giving a glance around, as if realizing most of the camp was still heavily asleep, the cheshire-cat like smile would soften as he lowered his voice,   
“Nothin’ like work to start the day,”   
Accenting this with a hefty chop into what looked like deer leg, his eyes narrowed as they searched the camp through the sunlight. Arthur, however, was much less enthusiastic, trying to mumble his way out of the situation, hands messing with his bandolier while Pearson continued,   
“Reminds me of the Navy, working hard.”

A brief pause as the butcher knife gestured over, the camp cook spotting Charles sitting off to the side, much to the chagrin of Arthur, who barely hid an eye-roll. 

“Now, we’re low on goods, why don’t you go off with Charles there?”  
Although formed like a question, it was clear Pearson wasn't just asking; the cook was looking at Arthur as if expecting him to know this already. The blonde would blink, working his jaw as he thought of a way to get out of work. He just woke up, and starting the drowsy day with hunting was not what he’d like to do. Especially not hunting with Charles, not so soon... He’d just wanted a talk. Or... a shared meal. Maybe... Maybe a touch of the hands and-

No. Nope. Not happening. 

Denial and Desperation were good bedfellows, it seemed, and Arthur had to scold himself. No use thinking that way, so, he grit his teeth and bit the bullet, nodding,  
“Sure, we’ll head out. See what we can bring. How’s that?””   
Anything to end this sooner.   
“Good! Great. Make sure you get somethin’ more than these measly offerings I have, alright?”   
Back to work he would go, clearly ending the conversation without another thought as his butcher’s knife hacked away, cracking through bone. Lifting a bloodied hand, he’d wave off the stocky man, gesturing to Charles with a point of his blade once more. 

As Arthur left, he could hear the dull thudding of a blade, and the grumblings of an overworked man. He himself was filled with nervous energy, heart already pounding its way up his throat as his eyes caught on that long, glossy black hair. 

Stopping awkwardly by the log, Arthur dug his boots into the dirt as he thought of what to say. Really, it shouldn’t be so difficult, but he was still trapped so far into his own mind and its musings that he couldn’t _think_ . Opening his mouth once or twice, he would settle for lightly placing his hand upon Charles’ shoulder, a ghost of a touch. Ready to pull away at any moment, honestly expecting to have to jerk his hand back until,   
“Arthur.”   
Matter of factly stated, Charles’ soothing deep voice would calm him; it would also only serve to spur on his anxiety as he realized he had to _respond_ instead of standing awkwardly like a star-struck kid.   
“Charles, you… er… you busy?”

Right. He had to get this over with. Just a simple hunting trip!  
Charles would place what he’d been working on to the side, and now that Arthur could see it clearly, it was some sort of folded leather. Two straps he’d been knotting together, although for what purpose, he couldn’t tell. But it was much better to focus on how the leather twisted, how it frayed, much easier than-   
“Pearson asked you to go out?”   
Thoughts dashed, Arthur would give him a slow nod, not daring to break contact and look at Charles just yet, voice gruff as he responded,   
“Yeah, apparently we’re runnin’ low on supplies. Meats, vegetables and the like.”

Stupid! Why was this so difficult?   
Luckily for him though, he didn’t have to ruminate in his thoughts for long as a knowing hum sounded. After another moment of deliberation, the taller man would stand, black hair cascading down his shoulders and looking around camp much like a hawk. Giving a nod, Charles would grab his bow and sling it over his shoulder, not even sparing a glance toward the stock-still form of Arthur. It was all a wordless affair, and for once, he wished the hunter would _say_ something.

  
Colder.   
Arthur Morgan noted the change in temperature the deeper they went into the darkness of the forest, the way his hands seized up and jerked with each infinitesimal movement. It wasn’t intolerable, just extremely maddening to deal with, making Arthur wish he’d brought a jacket, something to buffer him from the low winds that blew at his skin and the gnawing chill. But there was nothing, and as Charles waved him forward, he cursed at himself, his hand gripping tight at his blade in an effort to suspend the flickering numbness.

One hand pushing aside the deep leafy greens of spring, his eyes caught on a doe, brown fur softly blowing in the wind as she bent her head down to graze at grass. Charles gestured toward her, silently indicating that this would be Arthur’s prey and indicating with another hand sign that he should get a better angle. Then, the taller man would split off, searching for his own game to catch. Despite this, however, Arthur knew that he would stay close to keep a watchful eye. Even with Charles’ stoic act, it was he cared. They’d _had_ something. Something that Arthur wanted to ignore, at least for now.   


Taking a breath, he would savor the feel of cold air rushing into his lungs, free and savage. Then, rubbing his hands together for warmth, he’d ready his bow, the muscular man pulling back on the string and notching an arrow into its rightful place. It was all habit now, motions that Charles had led him through in the deep blinding cold of Colter, a reminder of touches that lingered. A reminder of things he’d said. A reminder of what he _missed_. 

He couldn’t help that his hands tensed as he remembered the last time he’d hunted, with a bow at least, and he thought of John, his face split open and bloodied. A scowl breached Arthur’s typically gruff and expressionless face, teeth grinding at the thought of that _bastard_. Anger, raw and unfocused as it ran through his blood, pounding in time with his heart, faster with the added rush of adrenaline. Tension at the prospect of a hunt. For John to abandon his own family? That was something Arthur could never forgive. 

Teeth gritted. Eyes narrowed. Fingers slipped. 

The arrow whizzed through the air. And, with a thunk, and a pitiful cry, it’d lodge into her neck.   
He missed his mark.   
“Fuck”   
Barely breathed, and almost inaudible, Arthur felt the stabbing pain of guilt. He watched, mossy eyes wide, as the doe brayed and stumbled on her legs, weak and unsure and all too panicked to know what to do except to 

_Run_.

She didn’t get far. Legs buckled as she sunk into the grass a few steps later, gasping as her once soft hazel eyes dulled. Her breathing was the only thing Arthur could notice, as if it were pounding in his ears. His wolf-like eyes narrowing as he got close, knife readied in one hand, a soothing touch to her fur, and  
 _Shunk_

Blood spurted forth with vigor from her neck, as the deer kicked out pitifully for one last bid at life, gasping, breathing her last breath before falling eerily silent.

Hunting was never something Arthur excelled at, even though it was one of the first things he’d been taught. A slow, methodical clicking of a gun, and quick, supposed-to-be-painless- firing, and there! Dinner was served! Though the scruffy man couldn’t say he enjoyed it much, preferring the soothing act of pulling at herbs and flowers much more.

Soon enough though, satchel full of fresh meat and a pelt slung over his shoulder, he met up with Charles. A darker look in his eyes as he muttered a hardly audible, “Sorry,” that he could tell Charles was confused by. It was clear in the subtle tensing of the larger man’s shoulders, the way his hands worked with his own blade in an effort to think up something to say. And in that time, Arthur himself would wish he could take it back. Foolish. He was stupid, what was he even thinking—  
“It’s alright, Arthur.”   
Soothing and calm, as gentle as the briefest of touches from a feather, and it was all that was needed to break his thoughts. Although neither really knew what he was apologizing for, Arthur felt better, like a weight had been lifted. Of course, if asked, he’d say that he wished he’d shot truer, been faster, stayed focused. But, the real truth was something still hidden to the both of them, something darker. Something Arthur wouldn’t dare to touch on.   
  


The ride back was quite uneventful, and the awkward tension that lay between them seemed to dissipate slightly. They’d caught a few birds, now hanging from their horses, swaying with each hoofstep. Brief conversation was exchanged, asking about each other’s mornings, but the air between the two was still heavy as the doe that lay between them. It was bound to be. They’d traded looks unseen, pale green and deep, warm brown eyes clashing once or twice on their horses even now.

Arthur hadn’t broken up with him in anything close to bold display of fanfare. No, honestly, most in the camp hadn’t even noticed the two had been together in the first place. A few traded looks, hands glancing off one another in the cold of Colter, soft kisses behind winter trees, or caresses in the lamplight. A secret that they’d kept.   
Of course, Hosea had given Arthur some rather knowing looks. As well as soft, pitying smiles, a steady hand on the shoulder once he’d found out, even some rather pointed advice disguised as a speech. Being true to one's heart and all. Since then, Charles and Arthur avoided one another with an awkward fervor. Well, until Arthur decided to brave his own anxieties. 

Entering camp, his pale green eyes caught on Pearson’s form, now stirring what smelled like stew with a rusted ladle. As he busied himself with hitching Boadicea up and began to make his way over, Arthur would soon freeze, spotting John. He was laughing, one hand on Jack’s shoulder and the other on a bowl of his own stew. But before Jack’s own eyes could dart to Arthur’s form, he ducked behind a tree by the entrance, feeling the ghostly touch of guilt. He was acting like a coward. And he knew it. But, it was all he could do to not sock John in his face.

Damn. He seethed with anger, a rabid dog, scrabbling for what to say or how to feel. How dare he. How dare John come back as if he’d never left, and how could everyone be alright with it. He _left_ them. There one day, and gone the next, forcing Arthur into the role of father. And after Isaac-

No. 

He would not think of him. That sweet boy whose smile lit him up, and whose death— 

Green eyes stared up into the sky, breath hitching, thoughts racing too fast for comfort.

  
Pearson could wait. 

  
Heavy footsteps would make their way to the scout’s fire where Charles had sat earlier, although now there was no sign of him. Part of him sighed in relief, and yet-

Once more forcing down more complex feelings, he pulled out bright red meat, marbled with streaks of white fat, before sitting. Arthur would feed the fire. Watch as flames ate and burned through wood, smoke rising up, up, and up. Staring a little longer than he ought to, at least until his eyes began to burn. He cooked himself breakfast there, away from everyone, avoidant. Kieran noticed him, giving a rather quizzical look and the beginnings of a question, but a cold glare from Arthur soon shut him up and sent him away. 

  
He watched them all socialize, listening to Mary sing some off tune melody for the morning, and watched as most of the camp joined in. Listening to Dutch’s hearty laugh, and…

Once more, eyes would drift to Charles’ silent form, sitting away from the bustle and song of the others, and Arthur quickly lurched away when their eyes met. One thought would pound through his head, lingering like a headache, a reminder of why he’d left.

Not good enough.

Charles was light. He was wildflowers in full bloom. The warmth of a hand along a face, and the softness of his grip. Gentle. Nurturing. There. He was much like the sun.

And Arthur?  
Arthur believed he was born bad. Darkness tight like a noose around his throat, pulling him along like a feral dog, forcing the firing of a gun or swift, stabbing of a knife. So, swallowing down too-tough meat, Arthur would bring his eyes downward and back to that wild flame. 

There was nothing more to it.

Simple. 

Easy. 

And something he would never admit to Charles. No matter how the other asked. 

  
The blonde’s hand would faintly brush against his scarred chin, thumbing at it lightly as he choked with an all too familiar sadness. The heavy scent of liquor, sound of a harsh, gruff voice, a man with dirty blonde hair just like himself _._ And the pain, blood, and emotions too turbulent for someone so young as that same hefty bottle his father _always_ drank from cut straight across his chin in a swift motion. His reminder to be strong. His reminder to never share what didn’t need to be spoken.   
Arthur winced. Eyes only darkening further. There was a reason he didn’t think of this, and foolish in his actions, he thought he could control his own emotions. 

Yep. Easy as that, keeping a steady grip. 

But it was false. A lie he told himself. Responsibility placed where it didn’t _need_ to be. 

  
Another pair of boots practically appeared in the corner of his vision, as he was too caught up in his mind to hear it. Before Arthur could scowl or snap, he heard,   
“Dutch says we ought to head out, Bill gave ‘im another tip.”   
Raising his head, pushing straw colored hair out of his eyes, he gave John a look that could kill. Cold, forest green meeting John’s doey brown with indifference,   
“Why didn’t you take _him_ then.”   
Arthur spat out with venom, taking a small sort of satisfaction at the way John’s smile faltered, the way he stepped back lightly. Good. He didn’t want the other to feel any sort of welcome. In fact, he wanted John to feel _unwelcome_ .   
“W-well, you know Bill. He’s got half a brain, reflexes slow as a drunk man.”   
Arthur had to hold back a laugh at that, but it was true, and half the time Bill _was_ drunk. A slow blink, scratching at his neck, he sighed,   
“What about Kieran?”   
The former O’Driscoll member seemed as free as ever. So, he tried, watching John’s face twitch with disbelief as he then turned to find him in the camp,   
“The O’Driscoll? Really? You’d rather me take _him?_ I might as well turn myself in, would be a quicker death.”

John attempted a laugh, an odd sound that soon spluttered to a vague wheeze, eyes locking with Arthur’s wolfish ones. Pausing, the bearish man tucked his chin in and took another bite of salted meat. Watching John squirm and waver, taking a sick sort of satisfaction in it. His mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile. It’d be good to go out, a well needed distraction, despite the company,  
“Fine.”   
And he couldn’t describe what he felt as he saw John’s scarred face break out into a soft smile, as his hand tapped at his hat. But it was confusing. And it certainly wasn’t that rage he was so proud of.   
It actually reminded him a lot of how he felt with—   
“Wait for you by the entrance then, Arthur.”

He could feel his neck burning at the thought, and didn’t bother to give an answer to that, sighing once more and watching John walk off, then shooting a glare to Dutch, who looked as if he were about to laugh himself to death.

What was he getting himself into? 

He was already starting to regret this whole job, having to work with John... after all that he’d done. And the way that Dutch gave no hint of disapproval for John _abandoning_ them all. He ground his teeth, grabbing at his things before following.   
  
Pearson was awfully happy with the rest of the deer, rambling on about how this would feed them all for a bit, and speaking louder than he needed as to pointedly ask others to contribute more. Something about how they could ‘feast like kings’ if everyone worked as hard as ‘mister Morgan, here!’. At least it’d brought a laugh to Hosea’s face, eyes twinkling with a familiar smile as he walked towards Arthur, giving him some words of encouragement and a gentle rub of the shoulder. Trying to subtly tell him _not_ to hold a grudge, how it poisoned the soul. Well, Arthur might as well be made up of hemlock and liquor, so a little more poison wouldn’t hurt. But, he begrudgingly agreed, more for Hosea’s sake than his own. With a soft smile of his own, he leaned into the gentle hands of the greying man before he was off to the dappled belt of Boadicea. 

From what John described— although Arthur tried to tune him out— it was a farmhouse. Bill spotted it on the ride down from Colter, and after asking around, learned that a family lived there. They were supposedly on a vacation of sorts, saving up enough money to make it up north for a couple days, staying in some cabin, according to some of the drunker locals at the bar. 

It started raining halfway there, droplets collecting off the brim of his hat and dripping down, soaking through the tough leather and wetting his hair. It was irritating, and didn’t help his mood, following John through the forest, until forest turned to valley and valley rose to a hill. A hill upon which a paint peeling reddish-brown barn sat, and a mill, likely to grind flour with. Arthur could picture it, a family, one that wasn’t splintered, and they probably baked bread together. Full of smiles and laughs and glowing warmth. It made him angry. No… no, it made him _jealous_. 

While hitching Boadicea, John must’ve noticed the way Arthur’s teeth ground, the way his eyes darkened and stared daggers into the ground, because he shut up! Thankfully. Arthur didn’t keep track of where he went, or what he was doing, but they both must’ve had the same idea, since soon enough a few drier sticks were placed by Arthur’s feet. Working silently, he built a fire, first placing the wood into a pyre, and then, attempting to light it.  
 _flick_

_flick_

_snap_

“Shit”  
He sighed, throwing a broken match into the stack of wood and once more trying, fresh match in hand. The brittle wood bent lightly as he pressed it against the rough sandpaper of the book, and in one swift motion, he forced it down. 

_flick_

_flick_

_flick_

He flinched as a pair of warm hands touched at his own, and looking up, green eyes met hazel. Arthur’s trailed the scars that now split into John’s weathered tan skin, roughly stitched up still, as if looking into a map. They curved up, almost hitting at his eye, luckily going across his nose and tapering off there. He lingered there for a moment, stuck in shock, not expecting any sort of contact with how rare it was for him. But he realized, he couldn’t pull away… even if he wanted to.  
What did that mean?   
Well, it was certainly something he _didn’t_ want to think about.   
“Look that bad?”   
Arthur realized he must’ve been grimacing still, and quickly jerked his hands away, the spell seemingly broken. He was upset that he’d even let that happen, staring that long in the first place. Oddly out of character, Arthur _didn’t_ spit out something biting, he answered in a softer tone,   
“Er… it’ll heal up soon.”   
Only to realize he was meant to be angry, he was meant to hold onto rage that seeped and writhed beneath his skin, clawing its way up his throat. Yet, as he watched John struggle with the matches, as the other man’s scarred face glowed in the newly lit flame, a bright smile on his face, looking to Arthur for what seemed like a compliment. He couldn’t say that was all that he felt anymore,   
“Better luck than I did.”

And it upset him. What type of man was he if he couldn’t stick to his guts. If he couldn’t hold onto something, if he couldn’t collar his anger and remain steadfast. He had _beliefs_ , and he stuck to them strongly. A stupid smile and look from John wouldn’t fix that so easily. Arthur would make sure of it. And, as if to prove it, he forced out a bitter comment, laced with what might’ve been jealousy,   
“Might’se well be the only the only thin’ you’re good at, somethin’ useless and simple.”   
Of course Dutch’s favorite would be coddled _so far_ into adulthood.

John shot him a glare, flame coating him in an eerie light as he bit back,  
“What’s that supposed to mean,”   
A challenge, and one that Arthur would rise to meet, anger boiling over as his breath began to hasten,   
“That you’ve been babied far long enough, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you forgot how to shoot a gun with how long you’ve been gone.”   
He was disgusted. What kind of man left his family. What kind of man was such a _coward_ .   
“You think I’m not good enough. Well, Arthur—”

“I _know_ you’re not good enough, Scarface. You’re a coward. A stupid-”

John blinked, shocked into a stupor at the nickname, before cutting off with,  
“Shut up!”   
He was standing now, casting a shadow over Arthur and trying to intimidate him into silence. But Arthur only saw him as a young rabbit, nothing to feel threatened by, a stupid boy wearing shoes too large to fill. 

Clenching his fists, Arthur stood as well, chest heaving as they glared at one another in tense silence. Finally, he walked forward, chest meeting chest, green meeting brown, before spitting out,  
“Fuck you, Marston”   
He gripped John’s shirt collar tightly, pulling him close as he seethed with rage, and meeting his steely gaze. Then, in one swift motion, he pushed him back like a ragdoll,   
“Fuck you!”   
He towered over John as he slipped, the air leaving his lungs as he slammed hard into the muddied dirt. 

Then there was silence. Only the rushed breathing of both, and the pattering of rain to ease off any strain.

Arthur turned. 

He ran. 

  
“Arthur! Arthur, get back here you bastard!”   
He’d be lying if he said his heart wasn’t racing up to his throat, that his eyes weren’t stinging, because despite it all, this _hurt_ . Somehow even more painful than a knife sinking into his gut. It stung and twisted and bit at him like a snake, how John had _left_ the gang. Left _him_ .   
“I aint done with you!”   
Arthur could vaguely hear John yelling behind him, but pushing that away further into his mind, he would dash into the forest. But he wasn’t stupid enough to care. No. Arthur didn’t care what John thought of him. Right?

  
So he ran, rain pelting at him, mind racing too fast to really think about where he was going or how he was going to make it back. He ran past the branches whipping at his body, the stinging in his arms and face only serving to ground him in these feelings he’d rather not think about. He ran and ran, legs sore and aching by the time his foot struck against a rock, falling forward heavily with a waving of the arms.

Smacking straight into the hard, wet earth with a loud thump. And there he lay, rolling over with a groan, hand rushing to his face and feeling for his nose. Good, nothing was broken. He wasn’t sure if he could handle another mess so soon. 

Staring into the sky, rain rolled off his skin and cooled at his scratches, some of them already beginning to bleed, but Arthur couldn’t tell with how wet his face was already. How numb it felt, a mix of shock and the actual cold weather sending him shaking slightly, tremors wrestling at his hands. 

Stupid.

You fuckin’ idiot.

What is Dutch gonna think when you get back to camp, no cash in hand?

You’ll face the blame.

He’d swipe over his face, hand covering his eyes as he breathed, trying to wrangle the panic down like an unruly horse.

in

and out

in

And he held it there, feeling the way his chest tightened, and soon, how his lungs spasmed for air, before finally releasing. Listening to how his heart pounded and slowed. 

Arthur repeated this holding of his breath until he was finally calm enough to sit up. Then, he sat until he was finally calm enough to stand, wiping whatever mud and blood he could off of his face, and the fabric of his pants. Luckily they were dark, so no stains were to be seen, although it felt rather silly to care about now. But focusing on the smaller things was much easier than having to admit how torn up he was, the real root of all his anger.   
Much easier.

John fucking Marston. 

Arthur groaned, the stinging of those whipping branches before, and the bruising of his fall finally registering. This was all John’s stupid fault, he just _had_ to push Arthur. Or, that’s what he was telling himself. Wet, cold, and hurt. Despite it all, he finally felt himself relax slightly, the tension easing from his shoulders and slowly from his neck. Picking himself back up, putting himself back together, it was a familiar ritual that he was used to; with a wry laugh, he pushed his hair back and moved to look for his now lost hat. 

Of course they had to fight, just like before. The spats and thrown fists, and how Dutch had put them in a tent together until one caved and apologized. Or sent them on a job. Or even out to hunt, although they’d never caught anything before, as green as they were to everything. 

With a sigh, he resigned himself to looking again, eyes searching the woodland and spotting it half in the mud. Crouching down, he crawled toward it, one hand reaching out for familiar drenched leather as he flicked it around. Gross. But wearable. And then,  
 _Crunch_

A stag, hoof raised up as it spotted Arthur sitting in the mud. Was it... transparent?

No, couldn’t be…

But Arthur could’ve sworn…

It scared him. Once more, green would meet brown, and his hand would feel for the cool metal of his revolver as he raised it into the air, not even bothering to aim as he fired. The heavy scent of sulphur cloaking the area, and luck was in his favor as the large animal bolted instead of spearing him straight through. Curious, though, Arthur followed as it ran its course through a patch of woodland, only for it to soon open up into a rocky ridge. Finding the creature oddly missing, as if it’d run right off the ridge.

  
Sitting, Arthur wiped at his face and neck with the spare black bandana he’d pocketed, shivering from the cold although there was nothing he could do about it now, with all the wood around him too wet to light. He wished he was back with John, the fire would be a much needed addition to his current condition. 

Luckily for the gruff man though, as he sat at the edge of the cliff overlooking the valley below, the sun peeked through the clouds, beginning to warm him. The rain slowed, lessening in its intensity, and golden rays shone straight down, coating Arthur in their glow. 

Heat. 

He sighed, searching his satchel for his trusty bound journal, and lightly, he’d sketch. First the stag in all its glory, horns stretching up towards the sky as if willing to touch heaven itself, that odd ghostly thing. Then, the cliff, the view from it, and the sparse trees lining it. It stretched onwards to the right, outcroppings of rock meeting grass with blooms of red flowers, and further behind that, more tall green trees. Spruce, from the looks of it. His free hand threaded into wet grass as he chewed at his cheek, deeply focused, brow furrowed. 

  
Once the sun set, and stars lined the sky, only then would Arthur shut his journal. Sufficiently dried, and now worried he’d catch a cold, he stretched up to the sky, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Then, kneeling and picking a few of the red flowering plants, he brought the tip of one up to chew. 

Sweet and bitter.

Yarrow. 

He grabbed a bunch of the tall, flowering plant, breaking them off with a couple quick snaps, soon shoving them into his satchel. And then he was off through the darkness of the forest anew. Tracking the footsteps and wild panic he’d crushed beneath his boots mere hours earlier. 

  
John was sitting by the dying fire, the flames weakly sputtering out smoke, light, grey, and choking. One lightly scarred hand tightly gripping a metal tin of coffee, the rich smell heavily layering the air, unmistakable. He turned quickly once he heard telltale crunching, soft brown eyes blown wide and a hand on the grip of his gun. 

He steadily relaxed as he noticed it was just Arthur. The relief in his eyes was clear as day, and the beast-like man bit back a snide comment, gripping John on the shoulder as he pulled up his bandanna,  
“Let’s just get this over with.”   
John nodded, oddly silent, and pulled on his own mask as they moved up the hill, taking their time as to not be noticed. Passing by the hitched up Boadicea, Arthur gave her silver and grey pelt a few gentle and reassuring pats, whispering that they’d be back soon. It didn’t take long before they saw the house, the same old barn from earlier to the right, and fielded golden wheat to the left. 

Not bothering to hide his footsteps, Arthur’s heavy boots hit wood as he found himself by the door, moonlight illuminating the two story wooden affair. The windows were frosted over and a soft glow came from them, one that neither outlaw noticed. They’d been distracted, both by feelings left unsaid, and of course by the rush of a robbery, believing the family was off in the mountains. A vacation, like what Bill had said earlier. But as Arthur slammed his weight into the door, once, twice, and finally, wood bending and splintering in shards, he saw a large, stocky man sitting at a table. The man rose, panicked hands reaching for a shotgun above the fireplace that sat against the center wall, blue eyes full of fear like a mouse. Arthur was faster, hand moving and gun flashing out with a bang, barely aiming with how close the two were.  
That smell of sulphur again, and a choked gasp. The father fell, hands clutching his chest as red began to slowly seep into his grey union suit. Thudding down, red, sticky blood pooled around his chest, and Arthur paused for a moment to watch as it weaved its way into the man’s dark brown hair, almost entranced. Watched as blue eyes widened, as he reached out for something unseen, maybe attempting to grab a tool to defend himself. Well, they’d never find out, Arthur moving to stomp on the man’s hand with fervor, hearing a sickening crunch as bone moved where no bone should be, and finally, a scream. Cut silent with another gunshot. With the way the rest of the house remained dark and silent, Arthur assumed the father stayed home to work. 

Making his way to the table, he watched as John scurried around, throwing open wooden shelves and pocketing god knows what into his bag. A can of peaches there, half drunk whiskey, some salted meats. Arthur, instead, placed a hand on the table, creaking it as he looked around. 

The man had been reading a bible before bed, now half open against the table, and a pack of cigars were nearby, quickly taken and shoved amongst the yarrow and meat. Leaning onto his elbows, he gave John an odd look and spoke,  
“No need to rush, Marston. No one’s home.”   
Between looting, John gave him a rather curt response,   
“Better safe than sorry.”

  
So, Arthur got to work, practically stripping the place down with how fast he grabbed and searched, moving upstairs and looking for any saved money. It wasn’t hard to find, hidden behind some clothes within a dresser; In a lockbox that he was quick to shoot open. Grabbing what looked like 50 dollars, he gave a cursory look around the bedroom, taking a golden pocket watch out of a drawer, some spare ammunition shotgun shells, and a couple cans of food. Peaches and beans, yum. Finally, after deeming the place well scoured, he motioned to John, who was already waiting by the door. The awkward air of their fight still lay thick between the two, shutting up John, much to Arthur’s delight. Confused, he noted how it somehow felt even more suffocating than before. Trying to crack a joke of sorts, Arthur paused at the door and motioned to John with a slight wave of the hand, lips quirked into a smile,   
“Ladies first,”   
Well. Judging by the scowl that deepened across John’s face, that was _not_ the right thing to say. Not at all, and as John moved forward, taking long strides as if trying to run from the situation, he spoke,   
“Arthur,”   
His voice was gruff and heavy, anger lighting his features, back turned to the other,   
“This ain’t somethin’ you can brush under the rug. I ain’t no coward. I _ain’t_ , so when we get back to camp,”   
His hand reached for the cold, cool metal of the doorknob, slowly swinging it open; Hazel eyes met Arthur’s forest green ones with a dark, cold, sort of rage,   
“You are a _monster,_ Arthur Morgan. I don’t want to see your face,”   
Arthur could feel cool air buffer at his face as he stood there, grinding his jaw as he thought of a witty retort,   
“I don’t want to so much as _hear_ you br- _Agh!_ ” 

Something shining in the moonlight that Arthur couldn’t see and then–

Warm.

Metallic, and too hot, spraying across his face and mouth. 

Too close. 

Run. 

Arthur stumbled back hand reaching to his face, wiping away and pulling back, shakily looking at the _red_ that glistened on his fingertips. He stared blankly, only spurred into action when John cried out once more, a desperate and keening sound. Arthur found that he could barely hear past the pounding of his heart, but his legs weakly moved forward without him needing to think too hard. Out of instinct, he pulled out the revolver at his hip, and aimed, but his hands shook too hard to properly shoot at what looked like a mere teen, raising _something_ that gleamed in the moonlight. Something that Arthur’s mind refused to process. They plunged it back down with a strength that didn’t fit such a frail body, sending another gasped whimper out into the air. A sound that was fitting for a child searching out for its mother, or a young pup. But, as Arthur’s mind struggled, all that came up was,   
John.   
That was John, wasn’t it?   
But it couldn’t be, John was next to him, right? John was there, just now yelling at him. He was heat and light and, at the moment, anger. So it _didn’t_ make sense. John wouldn’t die. John _couldn’t_ die. 

Another raising of the blade, and Arthur finally rushed forward, hand closing around that mop of dark brown hair and pulling back hard enough to elicit a yelp. To stare into those bright blue eyes. Then, gun to the child’s gut, a shot rang out. Then another. And another. Until all that was left was the empty _click click click_ and rattling of the chamber. It was quiet, aside from choking and gurgling. Kicking the body to the side and standing over John, he only managed to stare. John’s black hair was fanned out and sticky with blood, eyes pleading, neck tense and strained as his chest hitched with a breath. It was an image he couldn’t comprehend, he couldn’t tell what he was looking at. It reminded him of a gutted animal. He was only forced into moving as his friend croaked out, registering,  
“A-Arthur”  
Weak, but there. And it was enough to force Arthur’s hands out of their tense twitching, a strangled cry making its way from his throat as his knees buckled. Crawling forward, he pressed into the wounds, but it wouldn’t stop the shaking of his grip. A deep stab into his neck, one that was barely covered, and then another, another at his chest. But there were more, what looked like at least two. Christ. Why was he so slow to move, why did it feel like his limbs wouldn’t respond in time? Speak. Speak goddammit. He needs you.  
“John. John, you’ll be okay, I’ve got you now. Just...”

“A-Arthur I.. pl-ease”  
Fuck. He looked so pale, so weak, and sounded so far away. So scared, it reminded him of when John was younger, a mere boy terrified of birds. He needed _more_ _time_. Pulling at his mask, Arthur tied it around the bleeding wound, knotting it tightly as he spoke,  
“You’ll be fine, you have to hold on. You’ve gotta hold on John, Jack’s waiting for you back at camp. He n-needs his papa, come on now, come on now John.”  
Weak gurgling was the only response he got, and John’s normally warm and soft brown eyes were sharp and full of fear. Terror. One shaky hand would reach up, lightly touch Arthur’s jaw, a gentle caress as he attempted a weak smile. And then it dropped away. Staining his jaw with a smear of deep red.   
Arthur knelt there far longer than he needed to. Not moving until John’s chest slowly stuttered, falling still. Not moving once the body turned icy cold. Not moving when he himself started shivering from the same, biting temperature. He hunched over, muscles sore and straining, breath coming in waves, a rhythmic mess. And finally, he felt something _odd_ when he realized he could feel again _._ Senses coming back slowly, first feeling the chill, then hearing the crickets chirping around him, and finally.. seeing that. But there was something more, that _odd_ feeling, once more. Right hand brought to his face, rubbing the tears off, he looked at the blood that painted it. Practically covered it up to his wrist. 

John’s

John’s blood, dried and cracked and cold now. If Arthur had any tears left, he would cry, but all he felt was a keening emptiness, a need to be _whole_ , and that persistent _tug_ . So he listened, he had nothing more to lose, he reached out, feeling a _thread_ where there was clearly just air, in some space above the body.   
And looking at John’s broken form, holding back a sob as he gently reached forward to shut dull hazel eyes, he gripped _it._

Arthur Morgan pulled.

_Hard_.


End file.
